


As Time Goes By

by teenuviel1227



Series: All of Time & Space [3]
Category: Day6 (Band)
Genre: DoPil Week 2018, Doctor Who! AU, M/M, past-Briwoon, past-Jaepil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 13:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14497659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenuviel1227/pseuds/teenuviel1227
Summary: Dowoon and Wonpil know it the first time that they see each other, spot each other from across the bar--it’s the roaring twenties and they can almost see the time energy, subtle as smoke, coming off of each other. A fellow traveller lost in time, both of them former companions of the same odd man in a big, blue box.





	As Time Goes By

**Author's Note:**

> This is a spin-off of my fics from Jaehyungparkian Week and JaePil Week which can be read in any order which you desire. 
> 
> Link to the series here: https://archiveofourown.org/series/986673
> 
> This is for Day1 of DoPil Week which is happening from May 1st to May 7th. You guys can check out all the info on twitter.com/day6sailing 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> CC/Twt- teenuviel1227

Wonpil knew it as soon as he laid eyes on him: something in the way that he held himself--a little stooped, a little used to hovering over a mobile phone or keyboard, used to having earphones stuffed into the pockets of his hood--the way that he didn’t wear a watch, but instead kept on reaching for his coat pocket on instance as if looking for a gadget that wasn’t there. Wonpil knows that posture, had seen it in himself when he’d first gotten transported back in time, had taken him years to correct it. 

It was an accident, something sudden, something that had taken him out of a moment that had up until then been the pinnacle of his existence: those months travelling with The Doctor, with Jae, as they went on adventures throughout time and space, culminating in that night by the lagoon, the moon hanging above them. It was just the night after Wonpil had confessed, had told Jae how he’d felt, how he’d been feeling all that time (years? months?) that they’d spent together--but also, it felt light years away, so long ago by then. Maybe in a way, Wonpil had always known what Jae’s answer would be: that it wouldn’t be  _ that _ way with them. He was, after all, not human. He was, after all, pledged to the TARDIS, to the universe, the way that Wonpil was pledged to his music, to his piano. 

But in his mind, it had been worth a try. In his mind, if they were both destined to be alone--then why not just be alone together? That night at the lagoon, Wonpil had been expecting a rejection, a tender one, but a rejection nonetheless. Something about safety, something about friendship, a quote in there about time and space, and maybe the plea not to leave, the plea not to stop travelling with him veiled in some witty comeback, in some cocky joke--it’s just who Jae was, always giving help and being so reluctant to ask for it himself. The Doctor to the core.  _ His  _ Doctor. 

There was Jae, with his hair shining in the early morning sunlight, eyes illuminated by the gold reflecting off of his glasses. 

“Pil,” he’d said, in that voice that Wonpil knew so well. “I’ve been thinking about last night--” 

And Wonpil hadn’t let him finish, had told him he just wanted to enjoy the moment. Often, as he’s taking a walk or teaching his students to play the piano, Wonpil thinks about that moment, about whether it was better left unfinished, the thought of something that could-have-been burning ever brighter than anything that had come to fruition. 

It isn’t that life is bad in the twenties. Wonpil quite likes it. Sure, there isn’t wi-fi and music is a little harder to come by--but also, pianists are more in demand, from teaching in the afternoons to playing jazz clubs at night; life is simpler. People in his part of Scotland are kind to him, are impressed by how well he speaks in English, point him in the right direction with regard to jobs. Of course, it helps that he’d pilfered some Jae’s psychic paper which showed people whatever they needed to see: visas, birth certificates, whatever the situation called for. 

But sometimes, life does get lonely. Sometimes, there is the urge to talk to someone about the Power Rangers or about Coldplay or about how much time there seemed to back when there weren’t cell phones or the internet to eat away at it. The problem being, of course, that back then is  _ now-- _ that Wonpil has a lot of friends here, but no one who he knew well enough to tell his secret.

After all, how many men would believe  _ I was touched by an evil alien who looks like a stone angels and can only move when no one’s looking and then they sent me back in time _ ?

No one. That is, until Wonpil meets Dowoon. 

  
  


Dowoon finds himself drawn to Wonpil as soon as they lock eyes across the bar. It’s something about his eyes: so warm and beautiful, twinkling under the busy jazz club lights. Dowoon had been in 1928 for all of three months and although he’d asked Jae and Brian to drop him off here, although he’d asked for a simpler time, he only then realized that simple didn’t necessarily mean  _ easier _ . The language part was easy--after all, Dowoon had grown up in Toronto, had dated Brian for all those years--but the part that was hard for him was realizing how all of the small things he took for granted in 2018 didn’t exist here. No Ubers, no laptops, no cell phones, no online job applications, no online registries. Jae had given him a piece of blank paper that he’d said would serve as any kind of document that he needed; Dowoon had been skeptical, but after everything that they’d been through, after them literally  _ drifting  _ through Brian’s memories, he would believe pretty much anything that Jae said. 

And it had worked like a charm: he’d gotten the lease he wanted on a small studio apartment in town, the job he wanted tending bar at a place called the Spring Flower. As much as he hates to admit it, despite the positive things, Dowoon had spent the past few months in a kind of mourning. Not just for his relationship with Brian which had been the crux of his young life, which he thought would be his life until death do they part, but also for his life back home: his family, his friends, his job. Just because you chose a kind of exile, it didn’t mean that the exile didn’t hurt.

Only recently had Dowoon begun to become more clear-headed about the whole thing, only in the past week or so had he woken up without that heavy weight on his chest, that resentment that he tried so hard to fight off. Brian hadn’t chosen him, Brian had chosen Jae--but in a way, Dowoon didn’t blame him. In a way, Dowoon knew how much those two meant to each other. But to know and to feel are two completely different things and only recently have Dowoon’s feelings caught up with his mind. 

The only trouble of course, was that now, Dowoon wanted to meet someone.  _ Meet  _ someone meet someone--and if he’d thought being gay in 2018 was a struggle, well, being gay in 1928 was even harder. There was no Tinder, there were no openly gay bars and those that did exist underground were mostly frequented by people who were already coupled up, more a place for couples to hold hands openly than a place to meet someone who would hold your hand and hold you close. He had so many stories to tell and absolutely no one to tell them to.

That is, until he locks eyes with Wonpil. His eyes are big, brown, framed by thick lashes. There’s mischievous twinkle to them, a way they have of lighting up as he smiles, as he grins at Dowoon, raising his glass of whiskey at him from across the bar. 

Dowoon’s on his day off from tending bar at the Spring Flower, is instead at a place called Time And Time Again where one of his friends plays percussions in the band. He’d come to see his friend play but the place was so crowded, so packed with people shimmying and tipping their elbows that he’d been confined mostly to the bar. 

Dowoon raises his glass as well, shooting Wonpil what he hopes is a charming smile. He watches in disbelief as Wonpil pushes through the crowd, makes his way over to him. 

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

Wonpil leans in, bringing his lips to Dowoon’s ear. The ghost of warm breath tickles the skin of Dowoon’s earlobes. A shiver goes up his spine. 

“You’re not for 1928, are you?” 

Dowoon freezes, watching Wonpil, wondering what to say. He goes with his impulse. 

“Are  _ you _ ?”

Wonpil laughs, then, and the sound of it makes Dowoon’s heart soar. 

“No, no I’m not. I figured there were others like me, but I didn’t expect anyone to actually be  _ here _ .” 

Dowoon is filled with relief, suddenly longing to let all of the stories out, longing to know that someone else here has gone through what he’s gone through, longing to belong. He glances at the door and then turns to look back at Wonpil.

“Do you wanna get out of here?” 

  
  


They go back to Dowoon’s place, which is nearby. It’s a small flat but clean, roomy because Dowoon doesn’t have a lot of things: a neat stack of books, a couple of suitcases, a bed pushed up against the wall with the main window in the room. Wonpil is funny, has a lightness to him that Dowoon both admires and covets--he marvels in the smallest things, the tiny trinkets that Dowoon had managed to take back with him: an iPod, a charger, earphones. Of course, the iPod was almost out of juice and there wasn’t anywhere where the socket fit properly but he used it as a special treat or comfort for himself: one of his favorite songs for good days when he felt like he was doing all he could to live well, one of his favorite songs for when he was feeling particularly homesick.

Now, they sit sprawled out on the bed, Dowoon telling Wonpil about what happened with Brian and Jae as Wonpil scrolls through his music selection, having just told Dowoon about the Angels, about him and Jae travelling through all of time and space. 

“So in the end,” Dowoon says, shrugging. “I really didn't’t mind. He loved him so much, you know, his raggedy man in the blue box. I’m happy for him, but now it’s time for me to be happy too. I think I could be happy here if I tried hard enough.” 

Wonpil smiles as he chances upon the file for As Time Goes By--one of Wonpil’s favorite pieces to play on the piano. 

“That’s very kind of you,” Wonpil says wistfully. “I’m not sure that I could ever feel that way. Even now, it stings a little--although, I’m glad too. I’m glad that Jae isn’t going to be alone forever. He’s so kind and so bad at accepting help, at asking for it. He should be with someone as warm and as sweet as you make Brian out to sound.” 

“Did you like him that way?” Dowoon asks, tilting his head slightly to the side. 

Wonpil shrugs. “Who wouldn’t?”

“What happened, then?”

“Well, the whole Weeping Angels thing,” Wonpil says carefully. He catches a look of disappointment flitter across Dowoon’s face. Wonpil grins. “But also, he didn’t feel that way about me. He said he needed time to think about it. And when normal people say that, you take it for what it is, but when a  _ Time Lord _ says that, you know he’s just, well, biding time.” 

“I see.” Dowoon grins, both relieved and sorry for what Wonpil’s had to go through. In his heart, a small sapling of hope beginning to grow.  _ Maybe, then, time has its way of sorting things out.  _ Wonpil is gorgeous: his eyes, his smile, the way that he held himself both elegant and unassuming. “Well, he’s missing out.”

A flush comes over his cheeks as Wonpil, in turn, studies Dowoon, his heart beating a soft, subtle  _ may-be, may-be, may-be _ . He likes the way that Dowoon’s jaw is set, the way that his voice is so deep but canters with a lightness over the cadence of his speech like everything he says is a private thing, a joke made only for Wonpil to hear. 

They sit there, watching each other for a while.

It’s Wonpil who speaks first, standing up as he picks the song out on the iPod, putting one earphone in his ear, and holding the other one out to Dowoon. It’s a strange sensation to do that, a gesture almost-forgotten, a sudden longing for portable music rising in them both. Dowoon looks up at him, blinking. Wonpil grins.

“Shall we dance?”   
  


 

The dance is more just holding each other close and rocking side-to-side, but even years after, when they’re old and gray and married and telling the story of them to their grandkids, they call it their first  _ dance _ . The room is illuminated in the soft, warm lamplight. Wonpil leans his head on Dowoon’s shoulder, one hand in Dowoon’s the other resting softly on his chest. Dowoon’s arm tightens around Wonpil’s waist as they move slow, soft, their footsteps only the lightest noise on the wooden floorboards. 

In their ears, the music plays true. 

__ You must remember this  
A kiss is just a kiss  
A sigh is just a sigh  
The fundamental things apply  
As time goes by

And as the song ends, Wonpil hits pause, but the iPod dies, the strains of melody still in the air, still lingering between them. Dowoon grins and Wonpil grins back, both of them having told their stories now, neither of them alone for the first time in what feels like forever.

“What now?” Dowoon asks, his voice a deep whisper in the quiet room. 

Wonpil grins, brings a hand up to Dowoon’s nape and looks up at him, studying the deep brown of his eyes before pulling him closer, their lips meeting in a soft, tender kiss. The moment is like a sigh: all relief and breath, all air and softness. When they pull away, they take just a moment to grin at each other, both of them blushing, before they hold each other close again, both of them swaying to a song only they can hear.


End file.
